I'm not lost, but lead the way
by KeikoHPfan
Summary: Modern AU. Dwalin is homeless and hopeless - although he wouldn't admit it, even to himself. Until Bilbo comes along and manages to turn his pitiful excuse for a life upside down. Dwalin is just not sure if he's able to heal and to move on. Will be slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer :** None of Tolkien's lovely characters is mine.

 **Warnings:** Slash (nothing too graphic) / Mentions of violence, homelessness

 **AN:** I thought about writing another Dwalin/Ori story, but inbetween I got this idea, and well, here we are... So enjoy and tell me what you thought about it!

HP-HP-HP-HP

Dwalin really hates those who actually give him something the most. It's fucking stupid and clearly bordering on schizophrenia, but he can't help the feeling.

He's learned that there are three types of people.

Most people simply pass him by and pretend very hard that he doesn't exist. Which, after all, is not so far away from the truth. At the beginning, he has wondered how those people could do that. He's never been able to, before. Now he's used to it, and it doesn't seem so strange anymore. He understands why they don't want to look at him. Because he's slightly scary, with his size and tattoos and bald head, and he's filthy and he probably stinks more than he realizes. Because people don't want to be reminded of their society's failures. And maybe more than that, because they don't want to be reminded of what could happen – it scares them, shatters the illusion of security they're working so hard to maintain in their lives. He gets it, how it's easier to pretend some things just aren't there. He's done it himself.

The second kind of people he hates, though. They throw some coins at him without looking. More often than not, the coins don't even land in his battered cap and roll away, and he has to retrieve them from wherever they fall, on all four like a fucking dog, and he wants to snarl and yell at them but he can't afford it. So he mutters a 'thank you' and keeps his fury to himself. Because he knows why they're giving him or any other pitiful soul begging on the streets a few coins while looking elsewhere. He knows it's only a way for them to have a good conscience before going back to their lives and a way to avoid thinking about people like Dwalin. About what happened to them. About what their everyday life may be. About what their own lives are like in comparison.

There is a third kind of people, though. A rare one, that almost seems to be from another specie altogether. The occasional shy girl who gives him a sandwich and a bottle of water with a sad smile and wide kind eyes. The young punk who sits beside him and shares his beer in silence. The mother who kneels before him, her children grinning at him behind her, and gives him a warm blanket and a cup of homemade soup while asking if he needs anything. The lady who stops by once a week, bent over her cane, and who chats about the weather before insisting on giving him sticky sweets and a gentle pat on his hand.

Maybe those people have the same motivations as the second kind. Maybe they're just trying to make themselves feel better. But they have this thing in common, this precious and fragile gift that Dwalin refuses to sully with doubts. They look at him. Not through him, not on the ground, not at the wall behind him. They look at him, they meet his eyes, they make him feel human and that's worth the pity Dwalin sometimes see in their eyes.

Somehow, it's worth it.

"Excuse-me?"

Dwalin almost misses the hesitant question. He's been busy trying to mend the holes in his jacket for at least an hour and cursing his too big fingers for at least fifty minutes, after all.

He raises his head and briefly stops breathing. The young man blinks at him, his cheeks tinged with pink – from the cold or embarassement, Dwalin cannot say – before smiling softly.

"May I invite you for breakfast?"

Dwalin tries to answer, he really tries, but for some reason he can't. The man in standing in front of him is surprisingly short for an adult male. Maybe 5 foot 3, from what Dwalin can see from where he's sitting on the pavement. He seems to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but the mop of curly golden hair on his head makes him look younger. His eyes are a greenish shade of blue and he's got the cutest button nose that Dwalin has ever seen.

The man is wearing a burgundy coat with silver buttons over dark blue jeans and shiny black shoes, and there's an emerald green scarf around his neck.

Dwalin blinks.

The man is still looking at him, apparently gaining confidence from Dwalin's discomfiture, because he chuckles slightly before he speaks again.

"I was going to have a nice cup of tea myself, and perhaps one of the magnificent apple pies that Bombur bakes on Mondays, that is if Bofur hasn't stolen them, but then I guess I'll go for the crumpets. Oh dear, I'm rambling, aren't I? I'm sorry."

The strange man bites on his lower lip with a sheepish look and Dwalin finally gathers his wits.

"Don't think you'd want me to go with you to some posh place like that. Some cash to spare?"

Dwalin makes a vague gesture toward his cap and hopes that the man will get the hint, give him enough to buy something to eat and just go away. For some reason he's making Dwalin feel uncomfortable, on the edge, and he doesn't like it.

"Oh, er. Well, you don't have to, of course, but it's such a cold day, and I thought you'd like to warm up for a bit and have something to eat? And I wouldn't mind the company."

 _What?_ Dwalin is trying very hard not to gape. Is the man crazy? He's going to ask.

"Alright" he grunts instead, and the man beams at him.

"Wonderful! Shall we? The little café I was babbling about earlier is just around the corner. Family-owned, nothing posh, I swear."

To his own bewilderment, Dwalin is already packing his things away in his dilapidated backpack. He stands up and the man looks up at him with a grin.

"Well, you're certainly not on the small side. I'm Bilbo, by the way."

And the man – Bilbo – extends his hand, and for the second time this morning, Dwalin's breath catches in his throat.

Fuck, how long has it been since someone has offered him their hand to shake?

He takes the small hand in his rough paw cautiously, afraid he'll hurt this odd little man, but the fingers that grip his own are strong and sure, and he remembers that he shouldn't judge a book by his cover.

That's what Balin would say, at least.

Dwalin follows the little man dazedly, barely listening as Bilbo is happily chirping about his friends at the café, and he sneers at the bypassers who look at the odd pair they make with wide eyes. He knows it's a bad idea, he knows he should just leave right now and go back to his usual spot and hope that the cold will make people generous, but he can't.

For some reason, he can't, and he can only nods his thanks as Bilbo opens the door of a small café with a bright smile and gestures for Dwalin to get in.

There's no way this is a good idea, he numbly thinks as the warmth of the café hits his face. No way in hell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer :** None of Tolkien's lovely characters is mine.

 **Warnings:** Slash (nothing too graphic) / Mentions of violence, homelessness

 **AN:** Thank you for your support! For once I know pretty well where I'm going with this story, so here's the second chapter... Enjoy, and please, please, let me know your thoughts about it? Like it? Hate it? I wanna know ^^

HP-HP-HP-HP

Dwalin carefully sits on the wooden chair, trying to ignore the looks he's getting from the patrons. Their opinion of him doesn't really matter to him, but for some reason he doesn't want them to think ill of Bilbo. It wouldn't be fair, he supposes. The odd man seems nice enough, if a bit strange – who the hell invites an unknown homeless man for breakfast? Especially a man who looks like Dwalin does?

A cheery looking man with a moustache quickly makes his way to their little table, all smile and dimples and twinkling eyes.

"Morning, Bilbo! Morning, friend of Bilbo!"

Bilbo chuckles and smiles at Dwalin.

"Dwalin, this is my friend Bofur. His family has owned this little place since a century at least. His brother Bombur is the cook and Bofur plays waiter, when he's not busy eating Bombur's pastries, that is."

"Hey! I resent that!" Bofur grins and ruffles Bilbo's hair. The curly-haired man only rolls his eyes and Dwalin guesses it must be a frequent occurrence. "So, anyway, what will it be lads?"

"The usual for me, please. And could you bring Dwalin a full English?"

"Sure. Tea or coffee?"

"Er... Coffee. Black, please."

Bofur's grin doesn't disappear as he watches Dwalin grumble awkwardly, and he doesn't wrinkle his nose at the smell either. Which Dwalin supposes he should be grateful for, but it only puzzles him further. He _knows_ that he's stinking. His last shower was only last week at the Red Cross Center, but he doesn't have any clean clothes to wear and the ones he has on could stand on their own.

"Right away!"

The man happily bounces back behind the counter, before yelling their order through a door that must lead to the kitchen. Dwalin wipes his sweaty hands on his dirty jeans and begins to rethink the whole thing. He has to get out. He opens his mouth to say as much but the words die in his throat at the sight of Bilbo's honest and open expression.

"I... er... I'd like to wash my hands" he says instead, and the man's expression softens almost unbearably.

"It's that black door behind you."

He nods his thanks and stands up, trying to make his way quietly and refraining to glare at the other customers. He's relieved to reach the bathroom and spends a long time carefully washing his hands up to his forearms, until his skin is pink and prickling. As an afterthought, he washes his face as well, rinsing his bald head as best as he can in the small sink. He uses half a dozen tissues to dry himself and exits the bathroom feeling a tiny bit better about himself.

Bilbo is looking straight at him, still smiling, and there are two plates and two steaming cups on the table. Bilbo is apparently politely waiting for Dwalin to begin. Dwalin quickly sits down and looks at his plate. God, how long has it been since he's last had something that good? There are eggs and bacon and tomatoes and hash browns, and a side dish of toast with creamy-looking butter and orange marmalade. Dwalin has to swallow twice because he's salivating so much he's afraid he'll just begin to drool.

"Dig in before it's cold" Bilbo says softly before carefully blowing on his cup of tea, and Dwalin just nods.

It tastes even better than it looks. Dwalin has a hard time restraining himself from dropping the fork and just eat with his fingers. He probably would if Bilbo wasn't just in front of him. He doesn't want to offend the younger man, for some reason.

"Good, then?" Bilbo asks with a grin, and Dwalin grunts his assent in a way that would have made Balin cuff him around the head. As it is, Bilbo only hums, apparently pleased by his reaction, and begins to eat his apple pie, cutting it carefully in tiny portions with his dessert fork. Dwalin washes down a mouthful of eggs with coffee before opening his mouth – no talking with a full mouth, Balin always said.

"Thank you" he mutters, and Bilbo only flashes him an easy grin, and Dwalin is grateful for his quiet understanding.

All too soon, Dwalin has finished his plate and is left to watch Bilbo eat his pie with precise care. It's kind of fascinating, actually, and Dwalin startles badly when Bofur suddenly appears next to him, clapping him on the shoulder none too gently.

"That's a good lad! Bombur'll be right happy to see the plate comin' back that clean!"

Bilbo chuckles and downs what is left of his tea with a happy sigh.

"Perfect, as always. I have to go now or I'll miss my appointment. Are you done, Dwalin? Good, good. Bofur, put that on my tab, will you?"

"Sure thing, Bilbo. See you tomorrow, then?"

"You know you will!" Bilbo answers with a wink and Dwalin suddenly wonders if there's something between the two of them. He kind of hopes so, because kind souls like Bilbo surely deserve things like love and romance and all that.

Bofur grins at them as Bilbo stands up, and Dwalin dumbly follows the man outside. The cold is nearly overwhelming after the cozy warmth of the café and Dwalin is grateful for the food in his belly. His hand tightens on his backpack as Bilbo raises his head to look at him.

"Take care, will you?"

Dwalin nods and watches as the smaller man leaves, apparently satisfied with his wordless answer. Soon enough the golden locks disappear in the crowd and Dwalin makes his way to his usual spot. The pavement is icy cold and he winces as he sits down mechanically. His leg will hurt like hell in a few hours – this cold, damp weather ist the worst for his injured limb.

He barely looks up as coins are thrown in his old red cap some time later, and he realizes he's been lost in his own head for God knows how long. It's a dangerous thing, and it's not like him at all. He has the sudden urge to call Balin, to hear his brother's soothing voice, to tell him everything.

But he won't. He won't, he firmly repeats himself as he puts on an old wooden hat on his head. He only has gotten what he deserves, after all. And this life is probably still too kind a fate for the likes of him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer :** None of Tolkien's lovely characters is mine.

 **Warnings:** Slash (nothing too graphic) / Mentions of violence, homelessness

 **AN:** New chapter! Hope you'll like it, but either way, let me know! See you next chapter!

HP-HP-HP-HP

It has become an habit before Dwalin can even realize it.

Every Monday at precisely eight o'clock – Dwalin knows because he can see the train station's clock from his usual spot on the pavement – Bilbo comes by and invites him for breakfast. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if Dwalin wasn't a bald and tattooed giant dressed in rags and begging on the street. As if they were _friends_.

And Dwalin doesn't understand Bilbo at all, and it frustrates him to endlessly wonder what in the hell it is the man wants from him. There must be something, only he can't begin to imagine what. He has nothing left to give. The little man's interest in him probably means trouble and Dwalin should say no, he should resist the temptation of a warm meal in a warm place, but he's not able to refuse. No matter how hard he convinces himself the whole week that this is it, that he will say no on Monday morning, he never does. Because as much as he would like to deny it, those weekly meetings make him feel human. Normal. Bilbo chats inanely and chuckles and watches Dwalin eat as much as he's able to with a grin that isn't mocking as much as amused, and Dwalin fucking looks forward to them. It would be funny, in a sarcastic way, if it wasn't so bloody pathetic.

And as much as Dwalin is sure that Bilbo wants something from him, he knows that until now, it's the curly haired man who's been endlessly giving. Giving time, and money. Giving soft smiles and gentle words. Giving some of himself as well, as he sometimes tells Dwalin about his life, little bits of information that seem insignifiant on their own but make a good picture of the man when put together. Apparently Bilbo likes to cook. And read. He's single and lives in some posh area of the town that Dwalin has only heard of. His parents are dead and left him a substantial amount of money that he's doing his best to invest in things that interest him – and that make his bank advisor insomniac.

So all in all, Dwalin feels like he _knows_ Bilbo, and he's aware that he hasn't given anything in return himself. He barely talks at all during their shared breakfasts – not that it's unusual for him, mind you – and hasn't told Bilbo anything personal apart from his name. And yet Bilbo doesn't seem annoyed or suspicious, and he doesn't ask either. Dwalin doesn't quite know what to make of it.

That, and the fact that he's becoming rather fond of Bilbo, and he knows that it's going to hurt when it will end. Because it will, wether because Bilbo will finally ask something of Dwalin, or because he will have enough of eating with a stinking homeless guy. It's good to feel like he's not alone in the world anymore.

Which is why Dwalin is quite worried on the sixth Monday after their first meeting. Bilbo is late. And Bilbo has never been late before. As a matter of fact, the younger man seems to have a very well organized agenda. Is it over already? But Bilbo sad waved goodbye to him last Monday with a grin and said 'see you next week', hasn't he?

And why in the bloody hell is Dwalin fretting over this like a teenage girl? It's not as if he and Bilbo really were friends. It's not as if he hasn't expected it.

Half past eight.

Still, what if something happened to Bilbo? Maybe he's ill? Fuck. There's nothing Dwalin can do anyway. He has no means to contact Bilbo.

Of course he could always go to their little café and ask Bofur, but he would certainly make a fool of himself. And as nice as Bofur has always been with him, Dwalin knows it's probably because he was with Bilbo. But Dwalin hasn't any pride left to hurt, has he? And he's worried, and, well, if Bilbo just doesn't want to spend time with him anymore, at least he'll know. Dwalin bits his lower lip, trying to make a decision. He gives up as he glances at the clock, his worry drowning his last doubts. He stands up and hauls his backpack on his shoulder, quickly making his way down the street until he's standing in front of the café's door. He hesitates only half a second before pushing the door and getting in, eyes scanning the place to find Bofur. The man spots him quickly and his eyes widen before he crosses the room.

"Bilbo didn't come" Dwalin grunts, and he knows how pathetic he's sounding. He almost doesn't care.

"God, I know, I'm sorry. I should have thought about you, but honestly I've been so shocked I just couldn't... come, come."

Bofur takes his arm and guides him through the café before ushering him into what looks like the kitchen. There's a very big man there, with a white apron and red rimmed eyes.

"Bombur, it's Dwalin. He didn't know."

"Oh! Sit down, lad. Did you eat today?"

Dwalin shakes his head and Bombur nods distractedly, turning away to prepare something.

"Bilbo's in the hospital" Bofur blurts out, and Dwalin's heart stops. _No. Not again._

"What happened?"

Bofur sighs and drags a shaking hand through his hair.

"We're not sure exactly. Apparently he met some assholes who were harassing a teen in the subway. According to the witness who called the police, Bilbo tried to intervene and got hurt. Pretty badly, actually. He's still with the surgeons."

Dwalin can't breathe. Why in the hell did little Bilbo thought it would be a good idea to play the hero? He must have wondered out loud because Bofur shakes his head and sighs.

"Because that's Bilbo being Bilbo."

"I want to see him."

Bofur blinks before nodding slowly.

"Yeah. Sure. I'm going myself. Eat up and then you're going to bathe upstairs. I'm sure I have something that'll fit you."

"That's not-"

"They're not going to let you anywhere near him looking like that and you know it."

Dwalin grunts his assent and does as he's told.

DB-DB-DB-DB

He's been so not prepared. They're not allowed to get in the room, but they can see Bilbo through a glass panel. Bofur is furiously blinking his tears away beside him, and Dwalin is frozen. Bilbo is looking so fragile, so tiny on his hospital bed, his body unnaturally still, wrapped in bandages that don't hide the sickening purple bruises on his face, the regular beeping of the breathing machine the only proof that he's actually still alive.

There's a little blood on the bandage covering his head, and God, but it's like _that_ night, it's Thorin all over again, Thorin who dies in his arms with blood on the corner of his mouth, and he can't protect him, can't save him, can't do anything. He's _useless_.

Dwalin balls his hands into tight fists and tries to breathe evenly, barely hearing what a tired-looking surgeon is calmly saying to Bofur.

Bilbo can't die. Dwalin will make sure of it. He can't let someone else die. He won't lose another friend – it doesn't matter if their friendship is one-sided.

He just can't.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer :** None of Tolkien's lovely characters is mine.

 **Warnings:** Slash (nothing too graphic) / Mentions of violence, homelessness

 **AN:** Yes, an update! I hope you'll like this chapter, let me know!

Lady Alaniel: oh no don't worry, I never abandon my fics! I might sometimes get irregular in my updates - real life is unforgiving - but I always finish my works!

HP-HP-HP-HP

Dwalin watches Bofur's shoulders sagg and his heart skipps a beat. It's bad, isn't it? God, it must be bad. The doctor gives Bofur what is certainly supposed to be a sympathetic smile and leaves them, and then Bofur turns around, his face pale and... angry?

"Bofur?"

"We can't get in to see him. We're not family." Bofur's eyes suddenly widen and he hastily adds "But he'll be fine, don't worry! He's got a bad bruising on his chest and a concussion 'cause of a mean blow to his head, but he'll be just fine. Bilbo's tougher than he looks."

"How did you know about him?"

"Gandalf – that's his doctor – called me. He knows that Bilbo hasn't got any family left, and he knows we're best friends."

"No family?"

"No" Bofur shakes his head sadly. "But he has good friends, and we take care of him. Not as much as we should, though. Bilbo… He's… I'm not sure if I should tell you about him."

"Don't" Dwalin grunts.

He doesn't want to learn anything about Bilbo if it doesn't come from Bilbo himself. It doesn't seem right, for some reason. Bofur seems to understand, and he pats Dwalin's shoulder with a grin.

"You'll be good for him." Dwalin raises an eyebrow but Bofur doesn't explain. "Look, I've got to go back to the café. I'll be back tonight. Do you want to go back? I could pick you up tonight and drive you here again."

"I'll stay."

"Thought so. See you this evening, Dwalin. Oh! Here. For lunch. Shut up and take it, Bilbo will have my head if he learns I didn't take care of you."

Dwalin quickly puts the crumpled five-pound note in his pocket and hopes he's not blushing. For some reason this is much worse than begging in the streets, much more humiliating, even with Bofur crooked smile and his nonchalant attitude.

Dwalin scratches the back of his shaved head and turns around to look at Bilbo's still form once more.

It's still one of the most heartbreaking things he's ever seen, and he shivers helplessly. Thorin's bloodied face briefly appears in his mind but Dwalin refuses to think about it. To think about him.

Not now, not here. It's not about Dwalin. It's about Bilbo.

Dwalin settles down in a fragile looking plastic chair in the hallway and ignores the curious look of a nurse as she passes by.

Shit, how he hates hospitals.

DB-DB-DB-DB

Dwalin must have dozed off after eating one of the bland sandwiches of the cafeteria, because he nearly jumps out of his skin when someone shakes him awake by his shoulder.

"What the fuck?"

"Ah, er, sorry. My name is Gandalf, I am Bilbo's family doctor. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry 'bout that. I don't like to be surprised."

The man hums noncommittally and Dwalin takes a good look at him. He's a tall and slender man, with grey hair and knowing eyes. His presence irritates Dwalin for some reason.

"So, are you Dwalin?"

"Yeah."

"Great! Bofur told me you were Bilbo's boyfriend, and I arranged for you to get in the room. I'm sorry you had to wait outside all day, but you know how those things work. Shall we?"

Dwalin tries very hard not to blink stupidly. For once he's glad for his former job, since he's fairly confident that his shock doesn't show. Bofur has told Bilbo's doctor that they were together? Were all those people completely crazy?

Dwalin could be anyone. Neither Bilbo or Bofur really know him. He's a 6.4 feet homeless beggar for fuck's sake! Do any of them have any common sense?

Nevertheless, he wordlessly follows the tall doctor and forces himself to look at the still body lying on the bed. The room is warm and quiet, the silence only cut by the annoying beep of some kind of medical device behind Bilbo.

"He'll be alright. He'll need to take it easy for a few days, but he'll be alright."

Dwalin nods, but he's not convinced. Bilbo doesn't look like he's going to be alright. He looks… lifeless. Too pale and too still and – fuck, Dwalin really needs to get a grip.

"I'll be on my way. I'll come and check on him tomorrow, but I think he should come around tonight. He'll be happy to see you, my boy."

Dwalin snorts. Nobody's called him 'my boy' in a very, very long time.

"He's been lonely and I've been worried about him. I'm glad to know he has someone to take care of him now."

The man pats him on the arm and is out of the room before Dwalin can find anything to reply. He hesitates only for a second or two before sitting in the chair next to Bilbo's bed – thankfully this one is padded and much more comfortable than the one in the hallway.

Bilbo's hand looks tiny and fragile against the white sheet and Dwalin's own hands twitch on his knees. It would not be appropriate to touch Bilbo – it doesn't matter if the staff thinks he's his boyfriend. He's not, and Bilbo wouldn't want the homeless man he's feeding out of pity on a weekly basis to hold his hand while he's unconscious.

But maybe he should talk to him?

No, that's stupid. That's for people in a coma, not for people who're drugged on pain killers.

He'll just wait, then.

He'll wait and hope that Gandalf is right.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer :** None of Tolkien's lovely characters is mine.

 **Warnings:** Slash (nothing too graphic) / Mentions of violence, homelessness

 **AN:** And a new chapter, with a new character and some background information! It's a bit short but I couldn't cut it anywhere else - and, well, I couldn't resist the cliffy either. I hope you'll like it!

Oh, and before I forget, in this fic Thorin and Dwalin aren't related.

HP-HP-HP-HP

When Bilbo wakes up, Dwalin stays silent. He doesn't call for a nurse, and he doesn't move either. He just watches as the younger man's eyes flutter open, and as pain quickly replaces confusion on his face. Dwalin lets Bilbo slowly come back to himself, take in the white hospital room he's in, realize what must have happened. He can practically see the memories come back and Bilbo's quick mind doing the math. He quietly observes as his bruised face scrunches up with a mix of pain – not all of it physical, Dwalin knows – and worry.

"He's fine" he grunts. Bilbo's green eyes widen as he spots him and Dwalin shakes his head with a sigh. "The boy those bastards were bullying. He's fine."

"Good" Bilbo whispers, his voice hoarse and much lower than usual. Dwalin reaches out and pushes on the little button to call a nurse.

"Don't speak."

Bilbo looks like he's going to have an aneurism for a moment as he's very obviously trying very hard to remain silent. Dwalin smirks. Bilbo scowls, his cheeks burning red under the ugly coloring of his bruises. Dwalin leans back into his chair with a wider smirk.

The nurse comes in before Bilbo can explode with the force of his angry blush and then for long minutes there are too many people in the room. Nurses and the young doctor and his intern and God knows who else. Dwalin feels trapped and fights the wave of claustrophobia assaulting him by looking out the window. He must have zoned out longer than planned, because next thing he knows, someone is calling him.

"Dwalin? Is that you?"

Dwalin turns around and almost chokes on his breath.

"Oh my god, it's you. Oh my god."

Dwalin can't find anything to answer – or any way to flee – because a body suddenly slams into him and his mouth is full of blond hair.

"Hello, Fili."

"Don't you hello me! Don't you dare! Where the fuck have you been? Balin is besides himself with worry, and Kili... Well, Kili doesn't react well to be abandoned, and you know that, you asshole!"

"Fili, just... not now, okay? You're here for Bilbo?"

Dwalin's eyes meet Bilbo's and he almost chuckles at the look of utter confusion on the other's face.

"You know each other?"

"Yes, we do. This fuck- sorry. I'm Dectective Fili Durin, I'm in charge of your case. Are you feeling good enough to answer a few questions?"

Dwalin almost smiles, because, fuck, he's proud of the kid. He's always been proud of him, of Kili as well, but seeing him again after all this time, confident and professional, it's something else. The kid is handsome as ever, blond hair falling over his shoulders in golden waves, his face open and sincere. It tugs at his heart, and he can't help but think of Kili.

He can't help but think of Thorin. He turns around to look out the window again, and tunes out Fili's soft inquiries and Bilbo's stuttering answers.

DB-DB-DB-DB

Fili finally leaves - after slamming his card into Dwalin's chest and making him swear to call – and Dwalin can breathe a little better.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm not the one in a hospital bed."

"You know perfectly well what I meant."

"Yeah."

"So?"

Dwalin shrugs before sitting in his chair once more.

"You're stubborn, aren't you? Tell me. I've got nothing to do and I'd love to know you better."

Dwalin isn't stupid. He might look like he is, with his appearance and all, but he's not. He knows what Bilbo really means, and he knows that the man is trying to make him talk without implying that Dwalin needs to get it out of his chest.

"There's nothing to tell."

"Yes, well, humor me, will you? Injured person and all. You have to grant me my desires."

"Says who?"

Bilbo puts up his best stern expression, which isn't all that impressive.

"The boy is... a friend's nephew."

"Okay."

Dwalin sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking everywhere but at Bilbo's face.

"Fili and his brother Kili are my friend Thorin's nephews. I've known them since, well, ever. It's been a long time since I last saw them, is all."

"Right." Dwalin doesn't need to look up to feel Bilbo's incredulity. "That young man was so out of sorts when he saw you that he forgot all about me and his job. Not to mention he hugged you so hard I feared for your life for a moment."

"Yeah. I guess... I guess I shouldn't have made them worry like that. I just didn't think they would."

"But... you've said you've know Fili and his brother all their lives, and... That makes no sense. Of course they'd worry about you. Dwalin... what happened?"

And there it is.

That moment, the one he had known was coming ever since he's met Bilbo. Because Bilbo would want to know. Because of course he would care about what happened to Dwalin, even if he never asked before – Bilbo cares about everyone, really. Because Dwalin would not lie. Not about this, not about anything else. He's many things, but a liar isn't one of them.

"I killed Thorin" he whispers, and the world seems to shrink around him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer :** None of Tolkien's lovely characters is mine.

 **Warnings:** Slash (nothing too graphic) / Mentions of violence, homelessness

 **AN:** Here comes the much awaited explanation ^^ ! I made myself cry with this chapter (but I'm somewhat sensitive these days) and I'm afraid it's more angsty than I'd planned to make it. I hope you'll like it anyway and I promise that fluff is coming your way soon!

HP-HP-HP-HP

Bilbo is watching him with wide, incredulous eyes.

"What?"

"I killed my best friend."

"I-I... wait, wait. I'm sure that's not what happened. Explain."

And there's something in Bilbo's slightly trembling voice, something in his perplexed but somehow kind expression that makes Dwalin close his eyes and talk.

"We were soldiers, Thorin and I. That's how we met. Got trained together. And got deployed together, several times. That's how I got to know his family and vice-versa. He was... my mate, y'know? My brother in arms. The last we got deployed... Something went wrong. Well, something's always wrong, it's fucking war, no matter how they call it on TV. We... we came back from a patrol and were ambushed. Managed to get out of the Jeep, all five of us, before it exploded. Things went downhill from there though. Somehow we managed to escape, and Thorin was right in front of me. I saw the sniper on the roof, I yelled and all, but Thorin was shot. I didn't realized at first, because I was busy dragging one of our guys behind a wall for cover. And Thorin, he... he wasn't there. I got back and the sniper, he was... he was standing on the roof and aiming at Thorin once more, and I ran, I yelled, but I wasn't quick enough. Shot two more times before disappearing. And he was there, lying on the dirt, and there was so much blood, so much blood. I held him and told him it was going to be alright. I fucking lied to his face as he was dying in my arms."

"Dwalin..."

"I wasn't quick enough to save him. I should have. We made a promise, Thorin and I. We went together, we got back together. But I got him killed and he got back in a fucking casket. Went to his funeral in my fucking uniform with the rest of our guys and Thorin's family, and I couldn't look any of them in the eye. As soon as it was over, I took my things from my room in my brother's home and I took the first train to London."

"Dwalin, you didn't kill him."

"Yes I did!"

"No. War killed him. This sniper killed him. Governments and politics killed him."

"I should have protected him."

"You did your best, though, didn't you?"

"Wasn't enough. He still died, and I'm here. What for?"

"Maybe for this young man who was there? For his brother? For your own brother?"

"They're better off without me."

"But that would be for them to decide, isn't it? Because, yes, they lost someone, and it must have been terrible. But then you disappeared, and they lost someone else. Dwalin, can't you see?"

"Fuck off" Dwalin snarls before storming out, and he refuses to feel guilty for the look of shock on Bilbo's bruised face.

He's got too much guilt in him as it is.

DB-DB-DB-DB

Of course he's back the morning after, because Dwalin may be a fucked-up coward, but that doesn't mean he'll let Bilbo out of his sight. Not when the little idiot attracts trouble like a magnet, if what Bofur said is accurate. And Dwalin isn't good at much, but he knows duty. He knows responsibility, and he knows how to follow orders – even if they are only his own. He's been a soldier for most of his adult life, after all. It doesn't matter if these days he's just another shadow on the cold streets of London. He's still a soldier, it's branded in his brain, rooted so deep into his body that he'll never be able to forget. And maybe there's a selfish part of him that doesn't want to part from Bilbo yet, because, fuck, he'll be lying if he didn't admit he feels more human, more alive since Bilbo strolled into his life with inane words and colorful clothes.

He doesn't want to think of that other, darker part of him that craves redemption. That wants to prove something. To make things better, to be useful once more. To redeem that pitiful shell of a man that once was a proud and confident man. To feel useful. Needed. Worthy.

Bilbo doesn't say anything about what Dwalin has told him the day before or the way he has fled, and the tattooed man is grateful for it. Dwalin stays silent, even when Bilbo's strange doctor and Bofur come to see how the small man is doing. Dwalin stays in the room, standing in a corner, as if standing guard. Maybe he is. He doesn't say anything the whole day. Bilbo talks and talks, rambling about recipes and flowers and books, and Dwalin listens as best as he can. The curly haired man seems sometimes concerned, glancing at Dwalin now and then and worrying his bottom lip, but the fuck if Dwalin knows why.

When a plump nurse brings Bilbo his dinner and the sky is dark behind the room's huge window, Dwalin quietly slips out of the room, and makes his way through the hospital until the harsh and cold air of the street hits him in the face.

He'll be back tomorrow.

He has to.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer :** None of Tolkien's lovely characters is mine.

 **Warnings:** Slash (nothing too graphic) / Mentions of violence, homelessness

 **AN:** And then there was Balin... Enjoy and review, please?

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The next day is remarkably similar. Dwalin stays in Bilbo's room the whole day, not speaking and barely moving. At some point Bilbo seems to get tired of his one-sided small talk and he engrosses himself in an enormous book. Bofur comes by around noon, his cheerful smile only diming a little when he spots a stone-faced Dwalin in a corner.

Bofur is in the middle of a particularly crude joke that has poor Bilbo turning an alarming shade of pink and Dwalin smile in spite of himself when the door quietly opens.

Dwalin forgets how to breathe.

There, looking tired and old and with hair as white as snow, stands Balin. Balin whose eyes are full of tears and whose hands are balled into tight fists. Dwalin looks away.

"Don't you dare, Dwalin."

"I'm sorry."

"You're not." Balin makes a noise that sounds like a choked sob and Dwalin's chest constricts. "God. Two years, Dwalin. Two fucking years."

There is nothing Dwalin can say. Nothing that could make Balin's pain disappear, nothing that could erase the lines on his brother's face or put color back to his hair, so he remains silent. He would like to take his older brother in his arms, but he knows he has no right. His hands are shacking with the need to flee. To disappear, to escape his own pain, his guilt.

Bilbo clears his throat behind them and both brothers remember they have an audience.

"God, I'm sorry, this is awfully rude of me to barge into your room like that. I am Balin."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Bilbo, and this is my friend Bofur."

Balin shakes both men's hands with a tight smile.

"Fili told me about you. Are you alright?"

"Yes, thank you, I'm as good as new. Well, perhaps not, but I'll get there."

Bilbo's bright eyes shift from Balin to Dwalin and he looks about to explode with questions.

"Yes, I'm Dwalin's older brother."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry." Balin shakes his head and Bilbo sighs. "There is a small café on the first floor" he says, and Balin nods.

"Yes, I think it would be better. I have to thank you, Bilbo. Who knows when I'd have seen my brother again if it wasn't for you."

Balin just grabs Dwalin's arm on his way out, and marches through the corridors and elevators until they reach the café. Dwalin tries not to wince at Balin's tight grip – his brother has always been deceptively strong – and follows wordlessly. Balin orders two black coffees and drags Dwalin to a small and sticky table at the back. He seems to search his words for a moment, and when he talks, it's not what Dwalin expected to hear.

"How are you?"

"I'm... better."

"I'm not angry, Dwalin. Well, I am, but... I just wished you had told us you weren't coping."

"I... I was in a bad place, and-"

"We all were."

"No. I mean, yes, of course, but... I was there, Balin. I saw him... he died in my arms and then... nothing made sense anymore. I couldn't... I couldn't stay."

"Where did you go?"

Dwalin shrugs.

"I've been staying in London, mostly."

"I'm glad you've got friends, at least." Dwalin refrains to retort that they're not his friends. Not really. "Where are you staying?"

Fuck.

Dwalin can't lie, but he can't tell the truth either. He looks away, and hears Balin's sharp intake of breath.

"Dwalin. Look at me. You've got somewhere to stay, don't you? God, tell me you haven't been sleeping in the streets all this time."

"It's okay."

"What? I can't believe you, you-"

Balin stops suddenly and closes his eyes.

"You're punishing yourself, aren't you? Thorin would be so mad at you, you know that. God. He would punch you so hard. I'm tempted to do it myself, but it wouldn't do any good, you're just too hard-headed."

Dwalin snorts and blinks furiously against the tears in his eyes. The truth is, Thorin would probably beat the hell out of Dwalin if he saw his friend. But Dwalin never thinks about what Thorin would think, because Thorin is dead and most of the time Dwalin doesn't allow himself to think about him at all.

His injured leg throbs suddenly with white-hot pain and Dwalin shifts in his seat.

"I bet nobody's seen your leg during all this time. Come, you're getting a check-up right now. Shut your trap, you dumbass, that wasn't a question."

DB-DB-DB-DB

It turns out that Dwalin is in reasonably good health for someone who's been sleeping in the streets for the last two years and has shrapnel still stuck in his leg. The doctor is unimpressed with his weight, though, and frowns at the state of Dwalin's hands.

All in all, it could have been much worse, and Balin's scowl seems to lessen a little. Dwalin's deepens, though, when Bilbo and his brother exchange a few words too low for him to hear. He's quite sure that it can't be good news for him if those two team up against him.

"Don't disappear again, or so help me, I'll hunt you down and make you regret it. I expect you for lunch on Sunday. The boys will be there. Shut up and listen. You will not hurt them again, you hear me? Good. I'll see you on Sunday."

Balin turns away to leave but Dwalin is quicker.

Before he can think too much about it, he grabs the slightly shorter man and hugs him tightly, closing his eyes as the familiar warmth envelops him. He hears Balin sigh before strong arms come around him.

"It'll be alright, Dwalin."

"'M sorry."

"I know. I'll see you on Sunday, okay? Great, now do me a favour and keep an eye on this young man over there." Balin smiles and shakes his head. "I think we all owe him a lot."

Dwalin snorts but doesn't deny it. He watches his brother leave the room, and tries to ignore the mess of feelings exploding in his chest.

"Dwalin?"

"Yeah?" he asks, and his voice sounds hoarse and weak to his own ears.

"Are you alright?"

"No" he answers, and Bilbo just nods.

As chatty as the man can be, he seems to know when to remain silent well enough. Dwalin is thankful for it, really. After a few minutes, Bilbo stands up cautiously and takes a few steps around the bed, before gathering his belongings and putting them into a duffel bag – it wasn't there earlier, Bofur must have brought it with him.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm leaving the hospital today. Bofur will pick me up in a few hours."

Oh. Well that's good, isn't it?

"You should be coming with me."

"What?"

"My mother's studio would be perfect for you. She used to paint, didn't I tell you? Well anyway, I've no use for it and it would be good to have someone near until I'm fully recovered."

That's bullshit and they both know it.

But Dwalin supposes he could keep an eye on Bilbo easier that way. Not to mention Balin would be relieved to know that Dwalin isn't truly homeless anymore.

Yes, for the time being, it's probably not a bad idea.

"Okay" he grunts out, and Bilbo sends a brilliant smile his way.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer :** None of Tolkien's lovely characters is mine.

 **Warnings:** Slash (nothing too graphic) / Mentions of violence, homelessness

 **AN:** An update, can you believe it? Well, anyhow, reward me with lots of reviews?

HP-HP-HP-HP

Dwalin can see why Bilbo wants him to sleep here.

It's not in the house, to begin with, which proves that Bilbo isn't as moronic as he sometimes seems to be and that he has at least some sense of self-preservation. It's nothing more than a shed in Bilbo's garden, but one of the walls, the one facing Bilbo's little house across the well-kept garden, is entirely made of glass panels. Dwalin looks at Bilbo, wincing once more at the ugly bruising covering his face.

"I hope you won't be too cold in there. I must admit I maybe didn't think this through."

"I've had worse" Dwalin says, and it's Bilbo's turn to wince. "Don't make that face. 'M not offended or anything. It's great."

"You could sleep in the guestroom, it'll be-"

"Don't be stupid" Dwalin snaps, and Bilbo stiffens. "I like it there. And you should know better than to invite anyone in your house."

"You're not just anyone" Bilbo says softly, and Dwalin rolls his eyes.

"Right. 'M a homeless ex-soldier with PTSD and a bad leg. I could be dangerous, you moron."

Bilbo frowns.

"That's not-"

"It's fine. Now go to your house and lay down. Your doc will check up on you in a few hours. Told me he expected you to be in bed."

"Alright, alright."

Bilbo shakes his head but there's a smile on his lips, a soft sort of grin that seems almost… fond? That may be Dwalin's sick mind playing tricks on him, though.

"Go to bed, Bilbo."

"I'm going. Ask me if you need anything, alright?"

Dwalin waves him off and watches as Bilbo slowly makes his way to his little house. He briefly wonders how it is inside – he imagines it would be warm and cosy and homey. With plaids thrown over comfortable couches and chairs and lots of books.

He shakes himself out of his useless thoughts and looks at the little studio once more. There is a mattress on the ground in a corner, and Bilbo has given him two pillows and a stack of wool covers to make his bed. There are old brushes and pots of paint, a few broken gardening tools, and light. Lots of light, in spite of London's grey sky. Bilbo has brought a small electric heater and an electric kettle with a box of tea bags and a fragile looking flowery mug.

Dwalin tries to ignore the painful tightening somewhere in his chest and sets to work.

He might be not much more than a stray dog, but he's been given a chance to be useful again, and he'll be damned if he wastes it.

OD-OD-OD-OD

It's weird, to wake up in Bilbo's studio. It's not a home, it's still borrowed space, but it doesn't feel like sleeping at the shelter either. For one, he's blessedly alone. The shy morning light seems almost warm through the glass panels and he enjoys the feel on his skin for a while.

The air is pretty cold around him, and Dwalin isn't too keen on getting out of his bed – well, it's more of a nest, honestly, with all those blankets – but he really has to pee, and he'd like to brew himself a cup of tea. Ten minutes later his bladder wins and he relieves himself in Bilbo's garden, smirking as he imagines the other man's indignant splutter if he were to catch him doing that. He enjoys two cups of boiling tea before something catches his eye behind an old cupboard.

A white canvas. It's covered in dust and slightly yellowed, but blank. Empty. Before he knows what he's doing, he has taken a few of the old brushes and three of the cans of paint.

And half an hour later, the blank space of the canvas is covered with grey, black and red, splattered haphazardly in weird blotches and drops.

The red paint looks like blood, and Dwalin looks away, his eyes prickling for some reason. He blinks through his tears and spots Bilbo, standing there in a thick forest green dressing gown with a pained expression on his face.

"Er… I'm sorry, I shouldn't have… I'll replace it-"

"No! No, Dwalin. It's perfectly fine. You may use whatever you want in there."

Dwalin sighs in relief and nods.

"Did you… did you ever paint before?"

"What? No. Never did." Dwalin shifts from foot to foot and briefly looks at the mess of dark colors he's made. "I just… Don't know."

Bilbo smiles, that soft, gentle smile of his that always makes Dwalin feel like he shouldn't give up just yet, and lightly touches Dwalin's thick forearm with his small hand.

"I know you said you wouldn't get into the house, but I've prepared breakfast. Fresh crumpets and scrambled eggs. I thought you might like it, and Bofur should pop in shortly to see how I'm doing."

And fuck, how could Dwalin say no to that? Bofur is a nice guy, and Dwalin likes the way he says whatever goes through his mind. It makes it easier to trust him.

"Alright. Get back in, you dolt, you're gonna freeze."

Bilbo blinks slowly before chuckling.

"Right. Let's go, then."

As Dwalin follows the smaller man through the dew-covered garden, he tries not to looks at his hands. The red paint on them really looks like blood, and he suddenly wants to throw up. He wants to flee, to leave Bilbo and his nice house and lovely garden before he can sully them with all the dark things inside of him. Before he can fuck things up and hurt Bilbo. He's taking a shuddering breath just as Bilbo takes his hands in his own.

He has not even been aware that they had stopped walking.

"Just paint, Dwalin. We'll wash them at the kitchen sink. Everything is alright."

Everything is not alright, but Dwalin nods nevertheless and lets Bilbo guide him to his house. He does wash his hands as he's told to, and he sits down when Bilbo gestures for him to do it.

Everything is not alright, even with his hands clean. Even with a home cooked breakfast in a warm house and a kind host who's pretending to search for something in his cupboard to give Dwalin a chance to get a grip on himself.

But then Bofur barges in, all crude jokes and cheeky grins, and he sits beside Dwalin with a friendly pat on his shoulder, and maybe, just maybe, it's not so bad.

Bilbo scolds Bofur for his bad manners and the both of them get into an argument over tea brands, of all things, and Dwalin relaxes in his chair. He helps Bilbo deciphering the doctor's handwriting and gets the medication on the kitchen counter for him.

It's not so bad.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer :** None of Tolkien's lovely characters is mine.

 **Warnings:** Slash (nothing too graphic) / Mentions of violence, homelessness

 **AN:** An update, can you believe it? Well, anyhow, reward me with lots of reviews?

DB-DB-DB-DB

Sunday comes quicker than Dwalin would have liked.

Bilbo seems to be healing quite nicely, and Dwalin ist relieved to see him babble and smile as much as usual. The bruises have faded from his host's soft face and Dwalin is grateful for it, because the sight of them, the view of those greens and blues and purples marring Bilbo's skin, had made him want to punch something. Or someone.

He's absolutely not ready to see anyone. But Bilbo won't let him chicken out, and Balin, the clever bastard, has extended his invitation to him.

And so here they are, sitting in that fucking train that will bring Dwalin to the place he's called home for so long. To the place he's never thought he'll get back to.

To the place where Thorin's buried, cold and dead and it's his fault and-

"Dwalin?"

"Yeah?" Dwalin rasps, and he tries to swallow the lump in his throat.

"Are you alright?"

Bilbo's face is scrunched up with worry, and his small hand squeezes Dwalin's forearm almost too hard. Dwalin just shakes his head, unwilling to say anything until he's certain he's in control again. Bilbo sighs and smiles, a bit sadly, but his eyes are bright and clear, as always.

"It'll get better when you see them, you'll see. Your brother is a bit intimidating, but it's obvious that he cares for you very much. And I'm sure that Fili and his brother will be happy to see you as well."

Dwalin closes his eyes tightly, but it doesn't make the image of the brothers disappear from his mind.

"I failed them."

"Only because you made them worry, Dwalin."

Dwalin shakes his head, but he doesn't argue. He doesn't want to. Bilbo sighs once more and pats his arm gently before settling back into his seat. They stay silent for the rest of the trip, but Dwalin feels slightly better nonetheless. Bilbo's quiet presence beside him is oddly reassuring. Maybe he can do this after all.

DB-DB-DB-DB

Balin is waiting for them at the train station, but he's not alone. The boys are with him.

God. Fili's face is oddly blank, but Kili… Kili's eyes are wide and incredulous, and he lets out a choked noise that sounds painfully like a sob, and Dwalin stops breathing.

And then Kili's running, launching himself at Dwalin like he used to when he was just a boy, and Dwalin can only close his arms around him and try not to cry.

"Fuck… fuck, Dwalin."

"Shhh… I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry…Kili, shhh, it's alright."

"It's not!" Kili hits him on the shoulder with his closed fist, hard enough to make Dwalin wince. "It's fucking not. We thought… Fuck. Don't you ever disappear on us again, d'you hear me?"

"I won't. I'm sorry, Kili."

Kili shakes his head and wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand, but he's smiling, and Dwalin can see the boy he used to know behind the man he's become.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry. You must be Bilbo. I'm Kili. I'm so glad to meet you!"

Bilbo smiles and shakes Kili's hand.

"And I'm glad to meet you."

Dwalin looks up, meeting Fili's eyes. He won't make the first step, he's lost that right, but he hopes that Fili will lose that awful blank look. It breaks his heart to see how much he has hurt them both. How much they have lost, that day, when he left them just after putting their uncle into the ground. Fili bits his lip and comes closer, almost cautiously.

"Will you stay?"

"I won't disappear again," Dwalin answers, because he doesn't know if he can live here again so soon. Or ever, really. "I promise, Fili."

"You're such an idiot."

"I know. 'M sorry."

"D'you have any idea… Shit."

And then Fili's hugging him, and it's almost desperate, and Dwalin sighs in relief. Fili has always been quieter, more reserved than his brother. But he has always felt more deeply as well. And Dwalin wants that hard look, that blank mask that Fili seems to use to protect himself to disappear. He can't afford to hurt him again.

"Mum's going to rip you a new one."

Dwalin winces. Shit. He didn't think of Dis.

"Probably. Deserve it, though."

"Yeah, you do." Fili sighs and grins, tugging lightly on Dwalin's beard. "She'll be happy to see you. Give me your bag, we should get going before she storms in here. Hello, Bilbo. I'm glad to see you well."

Bilbo smiles softly and nods, before walking away with the two brothers, trying to keep up with the endless back-and-forth conversation. Some things never change, it seems.

"Dwalin?"

Dwalin shifts and meets Balin's concerned but soft eyes.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself. How are you?"

"Well enough."

"I'm glad you came."

Dwalin doesn't know what to say, so he just nods. And then he steps forward, and lets himself be held by Balin strong arms. And even if he has to bend down, he hides his face against Balin's shoulder, just for a moment, just there in that station where there's no one he cares about to see them.

"It'll be alright, Dwalin. Everything's going to be alright."

Dwalin takes a deep breath before straightening. Balin takes his face between his hands, and knocks their foreheads together, making Dwalin chuckle weakly.

"Come now, or Dis is really going to be pissed."

Oh fuck. Dis.

Just when he thought that the worse was over.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer :** None of Tolkien's lovely characters is mine.

 **Warnings:** Slash (nothing too graphic) / Mentions of violence, homelessness

 **AN:** Thank you for your support on the last chapter! I'm glad to see you haven't given up on this story - I haven't either! Here's the update, let me know what you think? Lots of love!

DB-DB-DB-DB

"So, it wasn't so bad, was it?"

Dwalin raises a disbelieving eyebrow and Bilbo winces slightly before sitting on the bench next to the taller man.

"Right, it was quite bad. But, hum, she seems really happy to see you. You know, now that she's, uh, more relaxed."

"Yeah" Dwalin whispers, mouth twitching as he thinks of the resounding slap she gave him a few hours ago. Everyone had stood in a stunned silence before Dis had finally thrown herself at Dwalin, half-crying, half-laughing, and all the while insulting him in a very creative manner.

"Is your leg hurting?"

"It's alright."

"It's obviously not. There."

And before Dwalin can react, Bilbo has gently but firmly taken his sore leg and laid it on his thigh, forcing Dwalin to twist his body to the side to follow his kidnapped limb. Bilbo is gently massaging his calf, humming quietly under his breath, and even if it's Dwalin's thigh that is injured, it does relieve his pain somewhat.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know. But I want to. It can't be good for you to stand for so long."

Dwalin doesn't know what to say, so he stays silent. He watches as Fili relentelessly annoys his mother and Kili makes his girlfriend giggle. Kili is a teacher, and the girl, Tauriel, is actually one of his colleagues. Balin is sitting next to Dis, fondly rolling his eyes at Fili's antics.

They've done so well, both boys. Dwalin feels so proud, and God, how he wishes Thorin could see it. Tears pool in his eyes and he looks away. Bilbo is looking at him, all wide eyes and wild curls, his small hands still on Dwalin's leg.

"It'll get better, soon. It's not easy for either of you right now, but it'll get better."

Dwalin grunts noncommittaly and lets Bilbo massage his leg again. It's so weird to be touched willingly by someone after all this time – of course he's clean again now, but Bilbo's never seemed to be disgusted by his apparence anyway. Dwalin is accutely aware of all the points of contact betwenn his body and Bilbo's, and it's not as embarassing as it could be. It's soothing, in a way.

Dwalin is almost disappointed when Dis calls them over, but Bilbo's eyes light up adorably at the perspective of food, and he follows anyway.

Lunch is just as he remembers meals with Dis and the boys: loud and messy. No matter how old they get, they're sill behaving like children. Kili's girlfriend isn't much better, and Bilbo's giggles only encourage them. Dwalin smiles almost against his will, and for the first time ever, he thinks of Thorin without that gut-wrenching pain. He thinks of how Thorin would have loved to see them together, happy and safe.

"So, Dwalin. I thought you could come and work with me at the company. We're understaffed and could use the help, you know."

Balin looks at him hopefully and Dwalin forgets how to breathe. Of course Balin would offer him a job – he owns a company that buys, restores and sells old and rare books. And Dwalin can't refuse, but he's so not ready, he can't imagine living with his brother again and having to work and see the town's cemetery every fucking day.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Balin. I'm afraid I've asked Dwalin for his help. You see, my house is really old and, well, I'm not very good with manual work" Bilbo says, fidgeting a little in his seat next to Dwalin. "There is quite a lot of work to do, really, and I should have done something about it a long time ago, but you know how it is."

Bilbo blinks innocently and Dwalin's lungs fill up with much needed air. Balin seems a little taken aback, looking back and forth from Dwalin's pale face to Bilbo's slightly pink cheeks, but he nods.

"Of course, of course. Understandable, really."

Bilbo sends Dwalin a quick smile before turning his attention to Dis and her famous recipe of shepherd's pie.

Dwalin has no idea how Bilbo does it, but he often seems to feel Dwalin's moods, to sense what he needs. He's just proved right now how intuitive he is.

Dwalin will do whatever Bilbo wants him to do in that damn house of his. Hell, he'll redecorate every single room if that's Bilbo wants. He has no idea how to convey his gratitude, so in the end he just takes Bilbo's plate and piles it with salad, and shepherd's pie, and bread, and gravy.

Judging by Bilbo's shy but honest smile, it was the right thing to do.

DB-DB-DB-DB

Dwalin is exhausted by the time he and Bilbo get back on the train, but he's happy, too. His brother made him swear to come back every Sunday, Dis threatened to castrate him if he ever disappeared again, and Kili and Fili hugged him half to death before they left.

The train is full and Bilbo is seated right next to him, so close that Dwalin can feel his warmth and smell the fresh scent of the cologne he's using. Bilbo looks out the window, apparently content in his own world, and there's a small smile playing on his lips.

Dwalin wishes he could look away.

"Er, Bilbo?"

"Yes?"

"I think… I think you should come with me next time, as well. They like you."

Bilbo's smile grows larger, and he cocks his head to the side slightly, studying Dwalin's face intently.

"Only if you want me to."

"I do."

"Alright" he says quietly, and then he turns to the window again.

Dwalin lets his head rest against his seat and closes his eyes. Maybe he can do this.

Thorin's face comes to his mind, not pale and covered in blood, no, but laughing with his head thrown back like he used to. Thorin carefree and strong and happy, and so damned loving.

So loving that maybe, just maybe, he would have forgiven Dwalin.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer :** None of Tolkien's lovely characters is mine.

 **Warnings:** Slash (nothing too graphic) / Mentions of violence, homelessness

 **AN:** Guess who's updating?

I'm sorry for the long wait, hope you like where this is going! Let me know!

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"So, what d'you want done first?"

Bilbo looks up at him, his eyes wide and unblinking. He looks kind of adorable, all confused like this.

"I beg your pardon?"

"In that house of yours." Dwalin downs what's left of his coffee and stands up to do the dishes. Bilbo is adamant that Dwalin should eat with him, and Dwalin has taken to clean up after their meals. "Said you wanted me to do some things."

"Oh! That's, well, no, really, Dwalin, I don't expect you to do it. You just looked like you were not ready to work with your brother and I thought it would give you time."

Dwalin frowns.

"Well, got the time now. Could as well use it."

Bilbo fidgets on his seat, looking pensive.

"I suppose you could work on the upper floor... I'd pay you, of course-"

"You feed me and let me sleep here. It's payment enough."

"No. Absolutely not. If you work, you get paid. That's how it works. Sleeping in an old studio doesn't count. And as for the meals, you're doing me a favor. I love to cook and it's better to share it with someone, especially someone as appreciative as you. So I'm going to pay you what I would pay a professional contractor, alright?"

"'M not a professional."

"True. But I trust you more than I would trust an unknown contractor, so... It's settled." Bilbo grins before getting serious again. "And if at any point, you don't want to go on, for any reason, just tell me, alright?"

There's no point in discussing it, Dwalin already knows it. He just shrugs and go back to scrubbing the dishes.

Better than thinking about Bilbo saying that he trusts Dwalin.

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The old tiles in the bathroom are kind of pretty, Dwalin has to admit, and he can understand why Bilbo doesn't want them removed – not that Dwalin has ever understood all that vintage bullshit, but they're in good shape too, so it'd be a waste to throw them away in any case. The blue flowery and geometrical pattern clashes horribly with the pale green paint on the walls, though, and Dwalin is more than happy to cover it with perfectly boring white paint. Bilbo would like to have the two bedrooms done as well – both rooms have the ugliest wallpapers Dwalin has ever seen, and Bilbo would like Dwalin to take it off and to paint the room with a light cream color. Dwalin figures he has about two weeks worth of work ahead of him. Not that he minds.

His leg hurts a little bit, a low-pulsing kind of throb that's more annoying than really painful, but Dwalin relishes in the feeling of having something to do, of being useful again. It's nice, and it's even nicer to be able to do something for Bilbo.

Of course the man hovers quite annoyingly, apparently expecting Dwalin to collapse at any moment. Dwalin would snap at him for being so over-protective, but it's not completely unwelcome, that feeling of being cared for. And then there's the fact that snapping at Bilbo would be like kicking a puppy. Probably worse, in fact. So Dwalin accepts the snacks and the glasses of water and stops working in the middle of the afternoon like Bilbo wants him to, and he tries not to think too much about the day when he's going to leave.

There's no use in getting upset over it. What he has to do right now is to repay the man as best as he's able to in the meantime, and to forget about anything else.

To forget how utterly _good_ Bilbo is, how kind, in a way that Dwalin has still trouble to understand. To forget about all the little casual touches the smaller man gifts him with, apparently oblivious to what they mean to Dwalin, who's been alone for so long. To forget about that little voice in his head that whispers that he doesn't deserve to be here, to sleep in that studio, to eat that man's food, to accept his money.

To forget how his fingers sometimes itch with the need to touch Bilbo's wild and soft-looking curls, to take that small body into his arms to shield it from the world, to-

It's better to forget, Dwalin tells himself firmly as he spreads white paint on another green patch of wall.

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Bilbo sighs contentedly, his arms crossed over his belly – and Dwalin absolutely doesn't find that slightly rounded belly cute or anything like that – and closes his eyes, burrowing further into one of his big armchairs of his living-room. Dwalin fidgets in the other one, trying simultaneously not to stare at Bilbo and to find something to say.

They've had diner and Bilbo has even drunk one of these disgusting herbal teas that smells like grass afterwards, and now they're sitting there, all quiet and heavy-lidded and warm, and Dwalin wonders what the hell he's doing.

He has no business sitting here, in that cosy room, with his belly full of home-made food and with warm and clean clothes. With this man, who is… Dwalin doesn't even have the words.

He feels dirty and tainted and unworthy, from his ink-covered hands to the bottom of his heart. He can't breathe, cooped up in that little room with too much wooden furniture and plush carpets, he longs to be outside, to feel the cold air on his skin, biting and unforgiving, until it makes him bleed and choke.

Dwalin opens his eyes – and when did he close them? - as warm hands covers his.

Bilbo is suddenly here, kneeling in front of him – and it's wrong, so wrong, to have him kneeling in front of Dwalin – and whispering something that Dwalin can't hear over the rushing of blood in his ears. Bilbo's fingers gently make Dwalin's release their hold on the arms of the cushioned chair and, Dwalin draws a shuddering breath.

"You're safe, Dwalin. Can you hear me now? Just breathe, slowly. There."

Bilbo takes Dwalin's hands in his, and Dwalin can't stand the look in his eyes.

"Dwalin?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Don't be. Are you feeling better now?"

Dwalin only nods.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. Don't think so."

"Okay. That's okay. Would you like to go outside? I think some fresh air would do us some good, I'm afraid I've had a little too much dessert."

Dwalin would laugh at how obvious Bilbo is, but he can't. Not when the man reads him so well, when he offers him what he needs without making him feel guilty about it.

They make their way to the garden, and Bilbo stands beside him, quiet but intensely present, looking at the stars with a wistful expression on his face, his golden curls looking beautiful in the moonlight.

And Dwalin knows, right at this moment, just this strange feeling in his chest means.

And he wonders what he's going to do, now.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer :** None of Tolkien's lovely characters is mine.

 **Warnings:** Slash (nothing too graphic) / Mentions of violence, homelessness

 **AN:** And a new chapter! I know, it's been a while, I hope some of you are still interested in this! Let me know! And keep in mind that it has to get worse before it gets better ^^ !

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Dwalin is a bit surprised to find out that he really likes Bilbo's house. It's nice and cosy without being cluttered or anything. It's warm and smells like homemade food and polished wood. It's colourful and alive, just like its owner. It's drenched in sunlight during the day and warm with comfortable shadows at night. Now that Dwalin has finished renovating the upstairs rooms, it's even nicer. Bilbo seems very pleased with the results, and Dwalin allows himself a brief moment of pride for managing to do something right. It's a good feeling to be able to give something for once, especially to Bilbo, who never seems to realize how much he gives and how little he takes. Who never seems to care, happily feeding Dwalin enormous amounts of home-made food and talking to him as if he were normal, and not a homeless veteran with a limp and PTSD.

Dwalin has actually managed to do one more thing for Bilbo: after the incident in the subway, Dwalin has adamantly stated that he would now go with Bilbo on his Mondays' London tour.

Bilbo had at first choked and spluttered indignantly, saying that he certainly didn't need a bodyguard and wouldn't agree to anything like that.

Dwalin had snorted and remained silent.

Bilbo had finally agreed, though his sly smile should have been warning enough, and then managed to drag Dwalin into several shops to buy him clothes and shoes the next Monday. Still, Dwalin gets to keep an eye on him, so he guesses it the whole thing had been worth it in the end, as uncomfortable as it had been. And the new clothes and shoes are nice enough. Bilbo has somewhat expensive tastes - not that he's only buying known brands or anything, but he's really picky about fabrics and cuts – and Dwalin has to admit that he's enjoying the obvious quality of the clothes. The pants, especially – Bilbo has insisted on several pairs, but the ones he currently has on are his favourite, their soft and warm fabric feeling nice against the sensitive skin of his scars.

Bilbo is currently busy fixing them both tea with buttered scones – ' _afternoon tea is important, Dwalin. We're not savages. Now sit down_.' – while talking about tomorrow's lunch with Dwalin's family.

"So, do you think I should bring apple pie? Or maybe-"

"Don't need to bring anything. Don't even need to come, y'know. They're not your family."

Bilbo blinks quickly, and Dwalin fidgets on his seat.

"Oh" Bilbo says quietly, and Dwalin's chest hurts a little. He knows he's just fucked up something, but he doesn't fucking know what exactly. "Yes, of course. I just thought… Of course."

Bilbo smiles as he hands Dwalin his cup of tea, but it seems a bit hollow, a bit forced.

Shit.

"Didn't mean... Shit, sorry. It's not like that. Just... I don't want you to do even more things for me. You don't have to. But I you want to, it's good, y'know?" Dwalin snorts out loud at his lack of eloquence. "Sorry, I'm not good with words."

"No, no, don't say that. I just – I overreacted, I guess. I really like your family and I would be happy to come with you again, but if you want to spend time alone with them, I wouldn't want to intrude."

Dwalin grins.

"You make an excellent diversion. I don't want Balin to pester me about, you know. Everything."

Bilbo's expression softens, almost instantly, and Dwalin's heart constricts painfully in his chest.

"He cares, you know. They all do."

"I know. Just don't want to get back there now."

"Maybe you could tell him that. Explain how you feel, if you can." Bilbo cocks his head to the side, his eyes gentle but steady on Dwalin's face. "He's just worried that you might disappear again, and he's trying to keep you close. Tell him that you're not going to flee, that you're staying here in London. He'll understand."

Dwalin sorts, because Balin is a stubborn older brother, but Bilbo has a point. He might not be so annoying if he knows that Dwalin intends to stick around. He looks up, and Bilbo is still leaning against the sink, his arms crossed over his chest, his lips curled into a soft smile.

"Yeah. I'll try."

"You do that."

"You should come with one of your pies. For Balin, you know. Always got a sweet tooth."

"Don't try to include me in your evil schemes. I might bake something for Dis and the boys, though" Bilbo adds with a smile, and his eyes are twinkling with mischief, and Dwalin can't help but smile in return.

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The train ride to Dwalin's family is more joyful than the last. Bilbo is chatting excitedly about something – Dwalin has tuned him out a while ago and is mostly content to watch his expressive face and flailing hands – and it's a bright day, sunny and warm.

If Balin isn't too much of a prick, Dwalin might even enjoy the day with his family and Bilbo, just eating good food and talking and have the kind of Sunday he used to have, before.

Of course it's not what happens, because Dwalin's life is shitty. Balin pesters him about coming to work and live with him, Dis annoys the hell out of him with her barely veiled insinuations about Bilbo, and Bilbo seems oblivious to it all, happily eating and laughing with the boys. To say he's frustrated is an understatement.

In the end he can't do what Bilbo told him to the day before and ends up yelling at his brother – who leaves in a huff – and telling Dis to mind her own fucking business. He regrets the later, though, since she seems so sad afterwards that Fili keeps glaring at him.

Before they leave, he takes her hand and mumbles 'sorry'. She just sighs and hugs him tight.

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I just... I love you, you know? You were Thorin's best friend, but you're mine as well. I want you to be happy."

"I know. 'S just... it's not like that, y'know?"

Dis raises an unimpressed eyebrow and says nothing.

"Just... he's my friend. I think. I don't want to fuck it up. I can't, Dis."

"Alright. I understand. I'm glad you're not alone."

"Thanks."

"And if something goes wrong and you can't stay with him anymore, you come here, you hear me? Good. Now go, he's waiting for you and I think Kili is up to no good."

He kisses her cheek then, and she smiles, warm and honest, just like her brother used to. He squeezes her hand once more and turns around, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

Bilbo spots him and smiles a bit unsurely, and Dwalin just nods, unable to fake a smile of his own. He gives Fili and Kili one-armed hugs, ignoring the blonde's stiff posture, before making his way out of the garden.

He doesn't look back, because he knows that Bilbo will follow. He's tired and his leg hurts and he doesn't want to think about Balin's angry face or Fili's disappointed one anymore. He doesn't want to replay the memory of his angry outburst in his head, of how he's not able to be normal, to keep his calm, to argue with someone without becoming violent – at least verbally, but he could feel his hands shaking with the need to hit something or someone, too.

He wants to get in the train and go back home and sleep.

He doesn't want to talk to Bilbo.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer :** None of Tolkien's lovely characters is mine.

 **Warnings:** Slash (nothing too graphic) / Mentions of violence, homelessness

 **AN:** So, er, yay, I'm alive? Ahem. Anyway. Here's a new chapter, I'll try to update soon again! Love you guys, sorry for the long wait...

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Bilbo, mercifully, doesn't say anything. He doesn't look scared or disgusted either – and God, but that man is strange – and he spends most of the train ride looking out the window, his face pinched with what seems to be worry, or frustration, Dwalin can't tell.

The pain in his leg is excruciating, and Dwalin knows it's more in his head than anything. Still, he deserves to suffer, so he focuses on it, letting his muscles cramp and his eyes water. It doesn't make him feel really better, but at least the need to scream his throat raw or to hit something until his knuckles bleed slowly recedes.

Bilbo is watching him suspiciously now, and Dwalin looks away. He can't stand the idea that Bilbo, of all people, might be concerned about him.

When they reached Bilbo's house, Dwalin doesn't have the time to speak up or flee to the studio. Bilbo takes his elbow and guides him none too gently into the house – and for such a short man, he surely have a strong grip.

"Sit down. We need to talk. And we need tea for that."

Dwalin sits down – or rather he lets himself fall on the nearest chair – and takes his head between his hands. He doesn't even try o pretend, because what would be the point? Bilbo seems to know him too well anyway. And he won't let Dwalin get away with a half-assed explanation, Dwalin knows that much.

"I'll go. Tomorrow, if that's alright. I – I can go tonight if you want me to, of course."

"Oh for God's sake. Shut up."

Dwalin looks up in surprise. Bilbo rolls his eyes and sets two steaming cups of tea on the wooden table.

"Drink. You need it."

"Bilbo-"

"Drink."

Dwalin has no idea what it is about Bilbo that makes it so hard to deny him everything, but he does as he's told, biting on the smile threatening to bloom on his face at the irony of him, the intimidating veteran, obeying that ridiculously small man like a freaking dog.

The tea does make him feel better, surprisingly. Dwalin has no idea what kind of blend it is, but it's slightly spicy and it warms him from the inside.

"I think it's time for you to leave the studio. I'll help you move your things in the upstairs bedroom after we finish our tea."

Dwalin chokes on said tea, warm liquid going down the wrong way and then filling up his nostrils until he's all but crying from coughing so much.

Bilbo is suddenly standing next to him, hitting him between the shoulders and holding a embroidered napkin in front of Dwalin. When he can breathe again, Dwalin wipes his face and tries to gather his wits.

"I'm not sure – what – Bilbo, I-"

"The studio was always meant to be a temporary solution." Bilbo sits down, this time taking the chair right next to Dwalin. He seems to hesitate, and then slowly lets his fingers rest on Dwalin's forearm. "It's time for you to take the next step. I don't think you're ready to go back to your brother's house just now. But there's a perfectly good bedroom upstairs that's waiting for you."

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am. I am very serious. I can't have you sleeping in that cold studio any longer. Besides, Bofur called to ask if you would like to help him at the restaurant – they need a dishwasher, their current employee is going back to his family in Liverpool – so you'll need proper rest. If you accept the job, of course. It's up to you. The room is yours anyway."

Dwalin's head is spinning.

"You – you were there earlier. I can't be trusted, I just – it's not safe, I don't –"

"You don't trust yourself. I know this. But I trust you. No, wait, Dwalin, let me talk. I trust you. I've trusted you since the first day I met you. I'm pretty useless, you know. There's not much I can do, I don't know any trade or anything. But I have a good instinct. I trust my gut feeling more than anything, and it has yet to prove me wrong. You've got a long way to go, I think we both know it, and that's okay. That's okay, Dwalin. You have all the time you need, here."

"Don't understand how you can say this. I could – I could hurt you. Are you bloody insane?"

"You could, yes. But I don't think you will." Bilbo smiles, squeezes Dwalin's forearm briefly before standing up, straightening his jacket with small, precise gestures. "It's settled then. Come on, we should get started if we want to be done before it's too dark outside."

This is such a fucking bad idea. He should stand his ground, stay in studio – better yet, he should gather his things and leave before he fucks up everything like he knows he will.

He should. He doesn't, though; He follows Biblo, like a fucking dog again, and just mumbles that he won't work on Mondays at Bofur's restaurant, because he has to escort Bilbo around the city.

He pretends he doesn't see Bilbo's smile as he packs his things, hauling everything onto his shoulder with a grunt. He lets Bilbo carry the old radio set and does his best not to stare at his backside as Bilbo walks up the stairs before him.

The guestroom is very nice. Obviously too nice for the likes of him, but Bilbo rambles about all the things missing and that he'll go buy the next day, until Dwalin cuts him off.

"Stop that. 's way too much already. Shouldn't be there at all. Don't buy anything, you bloody idiot."

Bilbo takes a breath, looks like he's going to protest, and then closes his mouth with a resigned sigh. Dwalin smirks, and Bilbo hits his arm as he leaves the room, a soft smile on his sweet face.

"Get settled, I have to get started on our dinner."

"Bilbo, wait".

The younger man turns around, and Dwalin balls his hands to keep himself from reaching out.

"I... thank you. For, y'know. Everything."

Bilbo smile widens, and he nods, his golden locks like a halo around his face.

Dwalin's fists tighten until he can feel his nails biting the skin. The pain isn't enough to keep him from smiling in return.


End file.
